A/N: Snowracer- thank you so~ much. It means a lot to me when people like my writing. My English is still improving, I hope. Sometimes it's just so hard to write characters like Sherlock with a vocabulary as limited and basic as mine... So thaaanks *_* Writing that, everyone please feel free to point out grammatical or spelling errors as this helps me to get better. :)

Set in Episode 2 when John finds the sign in the library first.
This is somehow turning into a plot. Strange. Not unwelcome, but definitely strange.

Description: Although, John mused as he watched his friend, there was something strange to him lately. The younger man's expression was almost... guarded? / This was getting out of hand, Sherlock thought. John was his friend, goddamnit. For whatever that was worth...

Suspicion

Book book book book book. John followed the black coat as his colleague raced through the rows of shelves like a dog that had found its trail. He almost bumped into the younger man as Sherlock suddenly stopped and started to flip through the titles in front of him, but he managed to steady himself and regain composure quickly. No need to be embarrassed. He let his mind wander off, leaving the thinking to the man who had probably figured it all out already anyway.

"Somewhere here, it has to be..."

He didn't exactly know why, but the shelf to his left captured his attention. He'd been in libraries often enough during his time as a medicine student, and later because he liked to read a good book once in a while but rarely had the money to actually buy one. And something is off here, he thought, leaning in for a better look.

He found out the reason for his uncomfortableness quickly enough- some books had been placed incorrectly. That bugged him for a reason, and he pulled out said works to put them where they belonged while Sherlock did... well, whatever it was he did.

His hand stilled over the spine of a thin magazine that had been sitting next to his goal and had now slipped to one side. There was a blink of utter silence. Then everything happened at once.

"Sherlock."

He didn't raise his voice, but the detective was by his side immediately. He stared at the yellow spot that was barely visible on the back wall of the shelf with wide eyes, seemingly at a loss of words (and John had to admit he kind of enjoyed that) before he suddenly ripped out the books in a feverish frenzy. John was careful to catch them all before they could fall to the ground, but he too was anxious to finally see the next clue.

Then it was there, bright yellow and foreign and ugly. John hated it immediately. The sign sat there as if it wanted to bite him, almost maliciously so. Even though it was only smeared spray pant, it seemed so evil that the doctor had to fight the urge to take a step back.

He also had no idea what it meant. But he was sure that Sherlock would figure it out.

Although, he silently mused after a sideway glance at his friend, there was something strange to the detective lately. The younger man's expression was almost... guarded even as he stared at the sign, lips moving with unspoken thoughts. Maybe he'd get back on that later. No, he had to talk about that for sure. But not now.

First of all they had a murderer to catch. That was his top priority. Whatever it was Sherlock had, it would have to wait.

Book book book not the right one where is the right one? Sherlock raced through the rows of bookshelves with John in hot pursuit. He quickly figured out the system this library used to organize the works they stored and turned sharp right at the next corner. Finally. When he stopped, John almost ran into him. He didn't comment on that, but he stored the information away for later. Clumsy when in thought, or something. Didn't matter right now. He had to find the clue. Solve the puzzle. Had to play the game.

It had to be here somewhere. He was vaguely aware that he muttered unintelligible words while he searched, but he didn't care much either way. And he stayed that centered on his work until one small word ripped him out of it with a force that seemed almost brutal.

"Sherlock."

John's voice was flat, almost pressed. Sherlock's mind was dangerously blank as he turned to look at what his colleague had found.

Between the books on his right, a yellow spot shimmered on the white paintwork.

The next clue. John had found the next clue, with an ease that was frightening to the detective almost as much as the signs themselves were. How could he just see through the riddle this fast when Sherlock himself hadn't? How was that possible? He knew, knew with certainity that he was smarter than John; this wasn't about being rude or mean, it was just plain true. And still the blond man that waited next to him, a heap of books in his arms, had seen what he himself had not.

John, who hadn't helped him with the attacker in that Asian girl's flat. John who had found him and the evil cabbie before the police had and killed the man without a moment's hesitation. John, who lived with him every day and wrote a blog about their lives for the world to read.

This was getting out of hand. John was his friend, goddamnit, for whatever that was worth. Besides, thinking about trivialities like this only took his mind off the important things. Like catching the murderer. Like winning the game.

Still, when he turned his head to look at the doctor and found those blue eyes staring at the yellow sign in nothing short of hatred, Sherlock couldn't help the smallest twinge of something in his chest. Something he hadn't felt for weeks, and never this strong. Fear. He was afraid of John Watson, and that in itself was worse than a murder could possibly ever be.